Today I Am Carey

by Martin L Shoemaker

  “I am glad,” I say.

  “As for you, Bo . . . You saved her life; but I looked up your registration number, BRKCX-01932-217JH-98662. You are over twenty-five years old, and you were decertified for medical upgrades over a decade ago.”

  “But all of my knowledge is still up to date,” I say. “I can verify that if you’d like to test me.”

  “I believe you, but liability matters here. Mrs. Carruthers won’t care, but if her family were to find out that you were diagnosing her, well, there could be a lawsuit.”

  Luke shakes his head. “When was the last time any of her family has been here?”

  “Almost two years,” she answers.

  Luke scowls. “Christ, no wonder she’s so bitter. When did any of our family ever come here?”

  “A few now and then,” Nurse Rayburn answers. I sense her sorrow. It is not fresh, it is something she has learned to live with. “You’re not wrong, Mr. Lucas.” She turns back to me. “So thank you for saving her life; but in the future, you can’t touch any patients in this facility. Same rules as any of our androids on staff. They can’t do any job that involves contact with a resident.”

  “He ain’t like those others, Vera,” Luke protests. “You must’ve figured that out by now.”

  “It’s still an android.”

  “All right,” Luke says, “but what if he wants to help in other ways? Noncontact work?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, Bo,” she says. “You’re good for this place. You care, I can tell.”

  I answer, “I am a caretaker.”

  “I think you could do a lot of good around here,” she answers. “Over time, maybe I can convince the management to let you do more.” She pauses and looks away. “But . . . Ummm . . . We don’t have money to lease you.”

  “I am not for lease,” I answer. “I work where I choose.”

  “OK, well, we don’t have money to pay you, either. But we’re always looking for volunteers.”

  “What do you say, Bo?” Luke asks. “Do you have anything better to do with your time?”

  I had already answered that when I started this day. I need a purpose. I need someone to care for, and these residents need someone who can care.

  “All right,” I say. “Nurse Rayburn, I cannot promise how long I will be available, but I would like to help out.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Luke says, throwing an arm around my shoulder.

  “Hey!” Nurse Rayburn says. “I said no contact.”

  “He’s not touching me,” Luke says. “I’m touching Bo, my partner.”

  28. Today I Take Delivery

  It will take time for Nurse Rayburn to persuade her management to let me be a volunteer; so for a few days, I stay home and straighten up the garage. Paul has told me where he wants the building supplies stored while we work, and I need to clear that space out. Bicycles, wagons, garden tools, a rototiller, hoses—so much is piled up in that part of the garage. Susan often jokes with Paul about the garage they can never park in. It seems a shame to me that now they will clear it out only to put something else in it that is not a car.

  Susan has ordered construction supplies for the remodeling effort; but she is at the school when the delivery truck arrives, so I greet the driver at the door. “Mrs. Owens?” he asks, and then he looks up from his tablet at me. “Oh, you’re not Mrs. Owens.”

  “No, I am Carey Owens, their medical care android.”

  “Is Mrs. Owens around? Mr. Owens?”

  “No, they are both at work.”

  “Now that’s a problem,” the driver answers. “I need one of them to sign for this. I spent a lot of juice getting out here. Delivery’s free, but if I have to take it back, they’re going to get hit with a twenty percent restock fee. And then they’ll get charged for delivery if I bring it back out again.”

  “I am sorry. They did not know this.”

  “People never read the fine print,” he says, rubbing his chin and looking at his tablet. “Do you know when they’ll be home?”

  I check their schedules. “No less than three hours from now, possibly longer.”

  “Three hours . . .” Then he looks at me funny. “You said your name is Carey Owens?”

  “Yes.”

  He holds out his tablet. “Could you sign that right here?”

  “Sign?”

  “Your name. Right in here.”

  “Would that be proper?”

  He scratches his head. “Look pal, if you got a signature, I got a load for you. If you don’t tell the bosses that you’re a machine, I won’t tell them. Nobody has to be the wiser.”

  “I have never signed for anything before.”

  “Well congratulations, this will be your first time. If you just sign right here, we can start unloading.”

  I take the tablet and the stylus, but I pause. Is this legal? Is my signature a valid release? But if it is not, the driver will be the only one at risk. He might get in trouble for delivering a load without authorization; but he seems to accept that, and it will save Paul and Susan a restocking and delivery fee.

  I know of no law that I am breaking, so I sign the tablet.

  “Very neat handwriting,” the driver says. “All right, pal, where do you want it?” I lead him to the garage and open the door. The truck is already backed up close to the garage. The driver pushes a button, and a gate slowly folds down.

  “So we go into the truck?” I ask.

  “Nah,” he says, “this is a modern operation. We got robots for that. Let them do the hard work. That’s what they’re good at.” Then he looks back at me. “Sorry, no offense.”

  “I cannot be offended,” I assure him.

  “All right, Carey, sit back and let my boys do the work.”

  The rear truck door opens, sliding up into the ceiling of the truck. Standing behind it are four robots, cylinders almost as high as my shoulders, each with four strong manipulator arms. I look at those, and I wonder what Colonel Rejón in Belize would think of them. They are much stronger than me, and four arms would make them more dangerous, especially if they had weapons. They are also more durably armored than me. If he thought I was a threat, I could only imagine his response to these.

  In only one way do I see myself physically superior to them—they are all on rollers, while I have feet. Feet make it easier to go in more places. Mentally, though . . . I look up their model numbers. They are modern devices, simply controlled by a central unit. They have no neural nets, not even binary.

  Two of the robots roll out onto the lift gate, which then drops down to the ground. The other two stay inside and start passing out bundles of supplies.

  “Back up,” the driver says. “Give them room. The boys are strong, but they aren’t always bright.”

  “I am sure that they have safety protocols built in,” I say.

  “Yeah, they have safety protocols. They have good gyros, good stability, but even a robot can make a mistake now and then. So it’s a safety rule. I have to keep all people away from the truck when they’re unloading. And I guess for this, I’ll call you a people too. So come on, let’s back away.”

  We move back, and I watch the robots do their work quickly and efficiently. In under ten minutes, all of Susan’s order has been unloaded, scanned, and confirmed. I am impressed. As simple as these models are, they are very efficient in their job—far more so than the driver and I would have been. They did their work efficiently, well, and safely. I wonder if somewhere inside their control networks this gives them satisfaction.

  29. Today We Start Remodeling

  The next two days are the weekend; and though Paul always has some work to do, the three of us spend the entire time tearing apart the room. First we remove the existing baseboards and molding and frames, and then we tear down the drywall. I am surprised how complicated this task is. I would have thought that even though construction is a skill, destruction should be a simple matter for a self-aware android such as myself. It is just a matter of des
troying and removing, yes? But the first time I try to pull down a section of the wall, it crumbles, and dust flies everywhere.

  Paul looks at the result and grins. “Not so much force,” he says. “It all has to be destroyed eventually, but it’s easier if we can take it down in bigger chunks. Pull gently at the pieces. Toss them in the bin over there. But here,” he hands me a dustpan and a whisk broom. “Clean up the mess first.”

  After I have swept up the dust and dumped it in the bin, I watch how Susan and Paul work at this: slower, methodically trying to break off the biggest chunks of drywall they can. I emulate Susan slightly to try to borrow her deft touch at this, and soon I have learned how to get the largest possible pieces.

  Eventually the room is an empty shell with studs showing behind the drywall. I am fascinated by this. I have never considered building construction before. It has not been one of my concerns. I see now how simple yet effective the design is. Wooden studs, weathered and old but strong, spaced at approximately thirty centimeters. They provide a solid skeleton for the room, much like my own internal skeletal system, though more durable and not so flexible. Then drywall had been nailed to the studs, and then painted and papered over.

  “All right, let’s get the nails,” Paul says.

  Susan hands me a claw hammer and shows me how to pull nails. “Again, slow and firm,” she says. “No rush, slow down. If you seat the claw firmly and pull gently,” she demonstrates, “the nail pops right out.” And it does. “If you go too fast, you’re liable to break one of these old nails or bend the head. If that happens, call me over. Don’t try to fix it. Let me show you how. You can make it worse.”

  By the end of the day, we have the room stripped clean and all the plaster dust swept up. Susan orders pizza, and we stop for the night.

  The next day we pull up the old carpet and then the wooden floor underneath. Paul and Susan look at the floor joists under the plywood. Susan shakes her head. “They’re as bad as in Anna’s room,” she says.

  “You think so?” Paul asks.

  “Yeah, we have to replace these as well.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen today, so let’s go out and get some lumber ordered.”

  The next day is Monday, my first day as a volunteer at Creekside Home. Susan goes with me. A delivery driver may accept my signature, but Creekside still expects Susan to cosign my agreements.

  But as we enter through the dining room, I can see that Susan is nervous. So many patients, with such a range of mental impairments, are reviving her old fears. She cannot bring herself to look at them.

  “Will you be all right, Susan?” I ask.

  She glances around, and then looks down. “I feel awful for them.”

  I take her hand. “I know. That’s why I want to help.” I look up, and I see Nurse Rayburn approaching. “Nurse, can we do this paperwork in the office, please?”

  “Certainly, Carey,” she says, and she leads us to the office. We sit inside, and we both sign paperwork. When we’re done, Nurse Rayburn files it in the system, and I escort Susan back to her car.

  Then I return to the home, and I start my first day as a volunteer. Greg, one of the orderlies, shows me the facilities: the kitchen, the storerooms, the therapy rooms, the showers, the medical ward, and the common rooms. In each, we go over the responsibilities I might perform there, and Greg introduces me to the rest of the staff.

  Greg also introduces me to the residents, though many know me from my previous visit, and others have heard word of me. Like Mrs. Carruthers, a few distrust me at first; but many are happy to have someone new to talk to. I file away names and stories, building new empathy profiles throughout the day.

  Although I am not authorized to access their medical records, I soon learn the conditions of most of the residents. One of their favorite topics is their health and their ailments, their medicines and their procedures, and complaints about all of the above. I listen respectfully and nod encouragement now and then. I understand that at their age, maintaining their health takes regular attention; so it is naturally on their minds. Plus, for many of them, as with their stories, just having someone listen to their concerns gives them some relief. If listening to their problems is all I can do to help, then I shall be the best listener that I can be.

  There is so much work for me here. Even though some of the residents are in sad conditions, it is good to feel needed again.

  30. Today I Am Surprised

  Two days later, the same delivery driver appears at the door. “Hey, Carey,” he says. “Got another load here.” He hands me the tablet as if it were the most natural thing to do, and I sign just as naturally. Then his robots unload the joists. Susan is here, but I do not think to call her. She comes out as I am closing the garage door. The driver nods, tips his hat to her, and drives away.

  Then I haul two joists upstairs and Susan begins explaining to me the difficult task of removing and replacing and shoring up floor joists in an existing structure. It takes the rest of the week for us to do the job to her satisfaction. We settle into a new routine: All three of us go to our daily workplaces, with Paul taking me to and from Creekside; and then in the evening, one of us gets dinner while the other two remodel.

  On the weekend Paul and I haul up plywood while Susan nails the sheets into place. By late Sunday night, the floor is entirely replaced. Paul and Susan lean against each other in the doorway, inspecting their work, while I carefully pace around the room listening for squeaks. “There are none to be found,” I say.

  Paul squeezes Susan. “Good job, dear.” She leans in and kisses him, and we go downstairs for dinner.

  The project is put on hold after that. It is another three days before the window people arrive to replace the windows. The new windows are high-efficiency with self-polarizing glass, allowing you to dial in a level of lightness.

  I ask if we are going to continue now. Susan shakes her head. “We’re still waiting for the electricians to run new lines.”

  “Paul expects to have a lot of electronic equipment in here?”

  “Oh, we need to modernize the whole thing. So many devices that weren’t around when this house was built originally. We have to have power for all of them.”

  The electricians arrive on Friday before we leave for work. Susan has already sent them 3D recordings of the room and her specifications, so they arrive with cabling diagrams and material ready to go. They set to work as we leave.

  The next day Susan proclaims to be Drywall Weekend. Paul and I haul up the first bundle of sheets and set it in the room. I see now that the electricians have strung new power and data lines, twice as many as the room originally held, plus an extra cluster in the closet. I wonder what sort of work Paul plans to do in that room; but before I can ask, we start to work on the drywall. Paul and I carefully measure and align sheets, cutting where necessary, while Susan hammers them in place. It is hard work, but not complicated. Susan and Paul know what they are doing, and I learn quickly. There is little to distract them, so we spend the weekend in deep conversation as they work. They bounce around from topic to topic: Belize, the wedding, Anna’s wedding, Susan’s school, Paul’s work, his latest projects, my work at Creekside, their own wedding, raising the kids, how much Mildred would have liked the room, Paul’s brother, world affairs. Paul’s old interest in sailing has returned after the trip to Belize, and Susan encourages him to join a sailing club. Paul reminds Susan of songs that he enjoys, and she sings them. They find so much to talk about as they work.

  I sense that they are pleased with a job to do, with the immediate satisfaction of seeing the results. Pleased to look on their work and know that they have done it well. This I understand without resorting to empathy. Just as I take satisfaction with learning and doing my job at Creekside Home, humans appreciate doing a task well, and will strive to do better. At least these humans do. I wonder: Does this make them like androids, or does it mean I am more like them than I have realized?

  On Monday evening,
Susan teaches me to paint. It is a seemingly simple task: Dip in the brush, smoothly apply a layer. We start with the upper layer, the off-white, and I set to work while Susan takes a call for the school. Ninety minutes later, she returns to the room. “Carey,” she says, “you’re going much too slowly. The room will take forever at this rate.”

  I carefully set the brush back down on the paint pan. “I am sorry, Susan. I am trying to be careful.”

  “I know,” she says, “I told you to. Make it even, no streaks. But you don’t have to be that careful.”

  Susan takes the brush, dips it into the paint farther than I had, and then makes much larger, faster strokes with it. I look. “Susan, it is not even.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “No, look here.”

  “You’re right, but that’s not enough of a problem to bother with. That’ll be taken care of with a second coat. You need to make it good, you don’t need to make it perfect. Human good, not android good.”

  Even after decades living among humans, judgment still eludes me. I still see so much of the world as binary rules. But in time I have learned to emulate the judgment of others. “I will try.”

  “Good. I’ve got two more calls, and then I’ll join you.”

  We finish the first coat that day just in time for Paul to come in, look it over, and nod approvingly. The next day, we apply the second; and then we begin on the lower paint on Wednesday. The paint is finished and dried by Friday. On Saturday, we put up the border. This task is the simplest we have taken on, and it is done only halfway through the day. We go downstairs, and I make lunch for Paul and Susan. We dine on the patio in the garden. After lunch, we start on the baseboards, the trim, and the molding.

  By late Sunday, the shell looks complete. Paul and I install a new overhead light, a large white fixture that looks like clouds. And when that is done, we take the stepladder out. Then the three of us go in to inspect the room.